


Falling For Christmas

by scatteredmoonlight



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, after S1, au where malec never met in s1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-19 17:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16538759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteredmoonlight/pseuds/scatteredmoonlight
Summary: The holiday season has arrived to the Institute with a flurry of tinsel and ornaments—and preparations for Jace and Clary's wedding. Still reeling from his narrowly avoided marriage to Lydia and cynical about everything holly and jolly, Alec embraces his inner Scrooge and devotes himself to work. But when none other than Magnus Bane is hired to help with magical repairs around the Institute, the snowy tundra in Alec's heart might thaw just in time for Christmas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's never too early!! ♥

And without even a knock, Isabelle burst into Alec’s office.

“ _You’re here, where you should be! Snow is falling as the carolers sing!_ ” jingled from a stereo system lurking _somewhere_ in the fluffy Miss Claus outfit that Isabelle sported. She strutted to his desk and, silent save for the music, watched him work.

Ever since December crossed into some arbitrarily chosen date, New Yorkers welcomed the mass hysteria of Christmastime, Isabelle and the Institute among them. Tinsel glittered from sweeping, bushy garland twined around any and everything in the Institute. Festive ornaments hung here and there, the designs chosen primarily to compliment the golden glimmer of Clary’s wedding dress. As for the tree stationed in the ops center, at least it was a true Douglass fir. Alec, of course, approved all these “good tidings” on the understanding that none of it went against Clave regulation—nothing could get in the way of the upcoming inspection, _nothing_. Besides, the pain killers he’d choked down every six hours on the dot lessened the dull ache that throbbed ever since the carols played nonstop in seemingly every corner of the Institute, the only blessed silence being Alec’s very office and housing.

“ _It just wasn’t the same... alone on Christmas day..._ ”

Alec slipped out a fresh report in front of him, twirling his pen flagrantly as he skimmed the document, another claim asking for additional funding to fix sections of the Institute. Dotting the I, crossing the T, he signed off the report. He wasn’t going to speak first, so he left the onus up to her. But the Lightwoods never buckled to pressure.

“ _Presents! What a beautiful sight! Don’t mean a thing if you ain’t holdin’ me tight!_ ”

Isabelle sighed. “Honestly, Alec. This is a new low.”

Finally.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” asked Alec.

“Jace is getting cold feet.”

Alec slid a new report over the recently signed. He didn’t have time for this. Today was a _practice_ ceremony.

“Call me crazy, but a little pep talk by his parabatai just might do the trick.”

If not Christmas, then the Institute lost its mind over the wedding.

 _The_ wedding.

The ceremony, held twelve days before Christmas (twelve days before the Clave’s inspection), to officiate the lifelong commitment between Jace and a random mundane turned Shadowhunter who he’d known for no more than two months, several weeks of which he spent under the impression that his future wife was his own sister. People walked into marriage with the foolish notion that two months or a loveless contractual agreement could possibly equate to a lifelong partnership between two people who devoted their lives to the security of that union. Alec didn’t understand much about love and romance but, for him at least, he figured marriage ought to have not only that fiery passion but a professional comprehension of its gravity and life altering happenstance. Surreal did not begin to describe witnessing the guy he’d spent years agonizing over burning a marriage rune on someone else’s wrist. Their parabatai rune held greater significance.

And it was exactly this angry, vengeful resentment that kept Alec locked away in his office signing off reports. Jace entrusted Alec with giving him away. He didn’t need to know that Alec didn’t approve of his marriage, and their parabatai bond hid very little.

But Isabelle had a point. His feelings, regardless of the magnitude at which he experienced them, were trivial and insignificant compared to the duty of loyalty and compassion in this moment. Alec felt through the bond. Without the slightest stress, he sensed it: a little throb of panic beneath all the layers that guarded them from each other as they got closer and closer to the wedding. Alec had his reasons for guarding himself, and so did Jace. Certain aspects of Jace’s life were now only Clary’s to experience, the guards always waning after they disappeared together. Theoretically, they could speak today, as the ceremony was only a rehearsal, but they were shockingly traditional and conservative with socializing. Jace needed Alec now, like old times. Alec couldn’t be so cruel to deny him.

“Fine,” said Alec stiffly. “You win.”

Isabelle smirked. “Someone just earned their way off Santa’s naughty list.”

Alec contained the urge to roll his eyes.

“ _I was lost before you.  Christmas was cold and grey, another holiday alone to celebrate. But then... one day... everything changed..._ ”

* * *

“It means a lot, buddy. Really.” Jace rocked a little. “Thanks for—it really means—”

Alec clasped his shoulder. “I’m always here for you."

They stood on their marks at the altar beside the Silent Brothers and a large Christmas tree that masqueraded for the ceremonial angelic energy needed to ignite the stele. Jace flittered with the sleeve of his white blazer, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Alec smiled lightly, glad that the pep talk had helped. In Jace’s head, he lived out a horrendous whirlwind of anxiety where he’d somehow tricked himself into believing that this was both his actual wedding day and that Clary would stand him up.

_What if she left me at the altar? What if—_

_Clary’s not going to leave you._

_Yeah, but you left Lydia—_

“Attention,” said the Silent Brother Jeremiah. Alec startled, chilled at the memory of his own wedding to Lydia. His hand fell away from Jace’s shoulder and he grew overly conscious of it. “The ceremony is about to commence.”

It went similar to the last wedding held at the Institute: Hushed, sacred silence as the doors opened and Clary stepped into the aisle. Isabelle and others from the Institute were scattered about in the seats, all turning to admire Clary. Except when Alec had stared down at Lydia with numbing dread, Jace stilled everywhere save for his countenance. The panic from seconds prior melted away to a blissful elation, then awestruck revelry.

Clary ascended the steps to join Jace at the altar in refined elegance, a skill mastered after many poignant rehearsals. Alec’s gaze cut from her to Jace, and though he knew to expect the ache, he still brooded with dreadful longing at the sight of Jace flustered and handsome in his suit and bow tie. After Clary’s disruptive entrance into their lives, it hadn’t exactly been easy to accept that Alec had spent years living in delusion over his feelings for Jace, both in recognizing their existence and accepting the eternal unrequited nature. Strangely, the sham marriage to Lydia had gifted Alec with a clarity of mind to recognize both what he wanted and could never have. The truth of it, however painful, gave him a bittersweet comfort.

“It is time for Jace Herondale and Clary Fairchild to mark each other with the Wedded Union rune.”

Clary raised the stele to tap upon the Christmas tree, then brought it to Jace’s wrist. With a delicate touch, she traced the loving lines that comprised the rune without activating it. Jace’s tendons flexed from the effort of staying still. Emotions from the parabatai bond flooded Alec, but icy horror pricked at him as his mind slipped away to the memory of jerking his hand away from Lydia before the stele had grazed his own wrist. The stunned, shocked silence to follow had haunted him like the eerie quiet as he lured a demon out of hiding on a hunt. Heart battering, Alec had taken a step back, furthering the distance between his flesh and that stele. The whispers were deafening despite the blood rushing in his ears.

But that didn’t happen here.

With his imaginary marriage rune complete, Jace waited the appropriate time, then lunged for the stele so fast to repeat the gesture to Clary that they nearly dropped it. Everyone laughed, excitement bubbling over. But Alec, imprisoned in memory, realized a second too late, his laughter too loud and ill-timed while everyone else had simmered down.

After this, Alec needed a walk alone.

* * *

Protective wards locked up the lair tighter than Fort Knox under red alert. Palms extended and still vibrating with residual energy from the magic, Magnus basked in admiration at his handiwork. It’d be awhile since he’d taken a moment to simply admire his magic, to thrive in his own capabilities and observe it with a naïve eye. Had he really done such a feat? Why, it was magnificent! Look at that spell work just over there! One could barely tell there was a library with centuries old tomes and artifacts that ought to be filed away in a museum. But Magnus had done it, and he would achieve so much more after devoting himself to the warlock monastery in Galicia. No earthly possessions to distract him. Just magic. He only needed to survive the holidays, and the monastic life was all his.

Heart thudding, Magnus breathed deep enough for his chest to bloom. On the exhale, his gaze swam across every lingering evidence of magic, the mirage of normalcy slowly saturating the room until only the highly trained eye could detect any magic.

He’d never shaved his head before.

But there was a first time for everything.

Since dawn, he’d worked endlessly, pausing only for the necessities, to prepare the loft for his eventual leave. Most of the day he spent cleaning, or organizing enchantments to routinely clean the loft. The last thing he needed after returning from the monastery—however many decades or centuries that might be—was his hard-earned enlightened state darkened to the purest of rage all because of filth. And of course, he secured a paradise of endless food, water, and shelter for the neighborhood stray and feral cats who called his terrace home. He contemplated blood magic for the wards, but that prohibited new cats from finding refuge, and so settled for a scent based system. In Peru, he’d done blood magic for a rather misunderstood jaguar, and Ragnor kept bringing it up for years. _You and your familiars,_ he’d say.

Magnus ached with a pang of longing. Two months had long passed since Valentine’s men murdered his dear old Ragnor Fell. Tears sprang the second he imagined Ragnor’s face. His vision swam as he took in the familiar sights of his loft. He thought that it had been well lit before, but he now grew all too aware of the too few lamps switched on, the moon plump and full in the twinkling night sky, bright enough to cut through the closed curtains and illuminate the loft just as good as the meager lamps.

“Coffee,” Magnus declared to the lair. “I think that’s just what I need.”

He twirled his wrist on impulse to summon a portal, but halted. The coffee shop he chose tonight may very well be his last coffee shop in a long while.

* * *

Everything felt better after a little crisp wintery fresh air and the realization that Alec could fully devote himself to preparing the Institute for the Clave’s upcoming inspection. They’d need to hire a warlock. Dorothea’s handiwork proved sufficient, but the Clave would assume it judicious to have another warlock given the optics of Dorothea being held hostage by Valentine. Before heading out to walk that evening, Alec sent an email to Isabelle delegating to her the task of hiring a warlock.

These nightly walks began once the engagement was announced a week ago. He’d since discovered the prime hours for many festivities in the city, from the most frequent hours in Central Park for ice skating to, of course, the carolers who parked sporadically around the city belting out kitschy songs and swaying gently to more somber, introspective hymns. The religious aspects eluded Alec as Shadowhunters worshiped only the angel Raziel and he hadn’t been taught much of mundane religions, but with the Institute taking place in an abandoned cathedral, he took it upon himself to listen with more of a trained ear on the carols that held a significance to them. Just because he was half angel and aware of celestial and demonic ongoings didn’t mean that in the end he knew any more than mundanes did. Besides, if the Clave had their way, he’d be married to Lydia. If they were wrong about that, they were wrong about many things Alec hadn’t spent time forming an opinion on.

But he still didn’t care for the tinsel and bells, and nothing could make him understand Santa Claus.

He stood outside a smaller park with its own ice skating rink, rubbing his gloved hands together and blowing into them. He just wanted to watch people do laps around the rink before running into a coffee shop, any coffee shop, for warmth. He loved seeing couples on a first date struggle to skate without falling down, all the while caught in a turmoil on whether it were too soon to latch onto each other’s hands to stay upright. It was like watching an alternate reality. He couldn’t imagine being in that scenario. He’d rather fall on his back than hold someone’s hand in broad view.

His favorites were always the families. A mother holding her child’s hand while the father held the child’s other hand, all three slowly skating around the rink. Alec couldn’t stop watching the children on their little skates. His heart cinched.

“ _God rest you merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay_  
_Remember Christ our Savior was born upon this day;  
__To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray_ ”

A small chorus of woman in thick coats and brightly knitted scarves looped round their necks, their cheeks plump and rosy from the biting cold, crossed a corner and slowly paved their way down the block. Their light, cheerful singing twinkled with the fairy lights and lent a soothing glow to the night. Alec stepped closer to a tree, allowing them some space to pass unabated, and watched the ice skaters. His eyes first found a group of young men his age, tall and broad shouldered in their black pea coats, speedily skating and trying to make a friend fall. Soon enough the friend did fall, and another caught him by grasping his shoulder and hand. Alec didn’t want to look at them. 

“ _O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy  
__O tidings of comfort and joy_ ”

* * *

Fairy lights wrapped around the same trees Magnus saw every day, illuminated by the spirit of Christmas. Carolers lurked on all street corners, though he often turned his ear away from them, the temptation to join too strong. He still remembered receiving his first pamphlet in the streets of London and joining a band of singers impromptu. Ragnor (may he rest in peace) had been there, droning beside him. Camille had meant to join, vampire nest duties notwithstanding. His stomach fluttered at the memory, only nothing else could be felt but that. Magnus had just recently shaken off the caroling addiction; the monastery didn’t do Christmas. He had to remain strong.

He swept past the ice rink, not even paying attention to the corgis in Santa hats and the chihuahuas with elf sweaters. The reindeer antlered rough coat collie, given its supreme height, proved a challenge to ignore, but dare he say it, Magnus succeeded. Out of his peripheral vision, his eyes burned from the glimmering sheen of a massive Christmas tree and the gigantic bulbs wrapped around its thick, deceptively fluffy boughs.

He had a mission: Coffee and, tangentially, fresh air.

But tragedy struck.

Magnus heard them before he saw them: the carolers. Wavering always one note higher than the music allowed, their voices unified as a formidable force, even as weather permitted a scarf wrapped around one’s mouth for the calmest, warmest breath to fill the lungs.

“ _Glo – ‘oh ‘oh ‘oh ‘oh ‘oh – ria! in excelsis de – ‘oh. Glo –_ ”

The _gloria_ nestled its way into Magnus’s bones and latched to the deepest, most unbridled desire to slip into the back of the choir and belt out off-pitch alongside them.

“Coffee,” Magnus gritted out, hunching further into his black coat and midnight blue scarf. He hurried down the street and passed the carolers, eyes resolutely burning as he gazed upon the Christmas tree gallantly shining.

A street beyond the ice rink, a cozily-crowded, little mom and pop shop had spots available on a sofa and a long, wooden table to share pub-style. Holly and garland draped the windows, poinsettias on every table top. Snowflakes were drawn in white ink along the window, real snow caked on the outside panes and glittering white felt to mimic it inside. Enchanted, Magnus gravitated to the coffee shop. A silver bell jingled as he entered, his nose assaulted with an entourage of pumpkin spice, cacao, coffee, and the bizarrely satisfying scent of the down feathers in parkas. Red and green fairy lights bordered the front door, white versions pinned at the counter by the register.

Ordering coffee wouldn’t do, it soon grew abundantly clear. This venue screamed for hot cocoa with whipped cream and cinnamon and for an unlucky soul to become trapped in conversation as the oldest person in the room talked ears off about their youth. Which, coincidentally, was Magnus. With a Grinch-like grin, Magnus got in line. A gaping space traveled through the line, then the tall man in front of Magnus look one jolting step, and Magnus followed suit.

Magnus couldn’t stop himself from drinking in every ounce of the coffee shop, sewing it into memory. He loved the scent of freshly ground beans, embedded into the woodwork by now. He loved the chatter, which morphed into incoherent muffling. Laughter, the chiming bell as patrons came and went. Everything shined with Christmastime—peppermint mochas, peppermint hot cocoa, bona fide peppermint sticks. Candy canes hung off a little tree by the register. A price tag sat on the top beside a star for the peppermint canes and a neighboring platter of cookies. Dimly, Magnus was aware of the playlist coursing through an assortment of classic songs and recent covers, but then a lull period began as one song ended and another began. A white noise of muffled chatter, the chiming bell, and a faint, persistent drumming filled the playlist’s absence. Magnus crinkled his eyebrows in concentration, trying to locate the drumming. A gap appeared between him and the tall man, and with it, the drumming grew more faint. But with one large step, the drum came back stronger than ever. Curious, Magnus looked over the man’s broad shoulders, lined so well in his leather jacket which tapered down to slighter hips, and spied the man tapping tensely on his thigh.

 _Pa rum pa pum pum_ , the man tapped. _Pa rum pa pum._

The man’s face, obscured by a massive black scarf and an equally dark beanie, was tense with furrowed brows and dark shadows beneath his eyes. It was a shame. He seemed rather handsome, even when clearly in a foul mood. Magnus attempted to focus back on the decorations, so infectious with their holly, jolly enthusiasm, but the man was like a penny on the ground found with its face up. Once noticed, Magnus couldn’t look away, even though he really wanted to.

But it couldn’t hurt to look. Just for one night.

Soon it was the man’s turn at the register. The _pa rum pa pum pum_ travelled to the counter, sharper and succinct, but soon swallowed up by the latest Michael Bublé cover.

The cashier smiled brightly. “Happy holidays! What’ll it be?”

He traced a lined briefly over a candy cane, but snapped his hand back. “A hot chocolate?”

“Splendid! That’ll be two dollars. Would you like whipped cream with that?”

“Yes – please. Thank you.”

He paid, left, and soon enough it was Magnus’s turn. He went through the motions, enthused with politeness, but the man was enigmatically addictive somehow. He lurked about, toiling by the coffee machines and watching the baristas prepare drinks, then slinked off to examine the miniature Christmas tree perched by a little stand with some napkins, pamphlets, and a corkboard stamped with flyers. Magnus casually drifted to that general direction after taking his order. Luckily, centuries of hard work had made the traversal effortless, and when he came to stand beside the man at the tree, neither grew tiresome of the unmade acquaintance.

Magnus traced the hook of a candy cane, bouncing it a little on the branch, and out the corner of his eye, he spied the man watching it intently. Magnus suppressed a smug grin. “It’s a lovely tree,” he said.

“Yes. It’s, um, great.”

Magnus couldn’t help looking over. Despite requiring an astute, observing eye to overlook the layers of warm clothing, it was plain to see this man had the build of someone who knew how to fix every possible broken electrical socket and pipe in a house, and he possessed that same haunted, stoic eye in virtually every veteran Magnus had met. Yet he fumbled his way through admiring a Christmas tree. He was as charming as Frank Sinatra waxing poetic about snow.

Twirling around, Magnus smirked and hooked up an eyebrow, lowering his voice as he spoke. His heart pattered, knowing this was a bad idea, but he needed to uncover how deep the contradictory observances of this dark, handsome man went. “It’s always such a romantic time of the year,” said Magnus. The man visibly perked. “The holiday season, I mean.”

“You think so?”

He turned to Magnus, alighting with a glow. A little smile played at the corner of his mouth, and those previously stern features softened into a naïve little wonder. Magnus hadn’t taken any notice of the man’s eye color before, but with his expression now so bright and open, Magnus was drawn into them and the warmth of the man’s countenance. Green, but not entirely, flecks of amber darkening to a light brown at the iris, a ring of blue-grey outlining it. Then an inner voice reprimanded Magnus. _They’re hazel. What’s the big deal?_ Something was the deal, Magnus realized, and he snapped around quickly, forcing himself to focus on the tree.

An ornament twirled from a branch, a small nativity scene. Magnus’s mouth fired off his first thought. “Well, yes, of course it’s a romantic time of year. After all,” he said, reaching out to perch the ornament beneath his forefinger. “Isn’t it, in a way, celebrating two people who came together in dire straits?” _Shut up, shut up, shut up. Don’t talk about Jesus to the hot guy._ “Joseph didn’t have to trust Mary. Most thought less of him that he did.”

“No, I agree. If he hadn’t, she’d probably been stoned to death.” A leather glove came to thumb away a branch, folding away the plastic pine to reveal more of the two parents and farm animals gathered around a baby. Magnus gambled and took a step closer. He didn’t move away. _Thank you, Jesus._ A first time for everything, thought Magnus.

“I don’t actually—“ blurted the man. “I mean I’ve never...” He waved a hand at the tree, the wreath perched on the front door, the garland and lights.

“Christmas and you don’t mix?” offered Magnus.

He chuckled. His wrist shook from the light laughter, his palm grazing Magnus. Then the laugh cut off and his hand snapped back. The coffee shop had excellent heating, almost too good, with the windows fogging up at the edges, little hearts drawn into the condensation, but through the knit work of Magnus’s glove, he felt a chill after the tiny, heated second when their hands had touched.

Magnus released the ornament. “I always wanted to have a real Christmas tree.”

The man bristled. “Believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Pine needles get everywhere.”

“Some say that’s the charm of it.”

“Well, not me.”

Magnus bit his lip to smother a smile and spun around to properly introduce himself. “I’m Magnus.”

The man smiled again, but something about it gave Magnus the impression that he didn’t smile often. “I’m – ”

“Hot chocolate for Alec!”

The world felt smaller and they chuckled lightly to compensate.

“It’s short for Alexander,” said Alec, apologetically.

“Alexander, then,” said Magnus. He thought it over a few times in his head. He’d never given much thought into what appearance coincided to that name, Alexander, but in that moment it fit this man like a glove.

“Hot chocolate for Magnus!”

“We should, uh—probably...” Alec looked at him expectantly.

“Chocolate calls,” said Magnus.

“Right.” Wide-eyed, Alec swept past him, but not without clasping his forearm gently, hand slipping down his arm as he passed. Magnus traced along the shell of his ear and twirled a studded earring, sucking in his cheek. Nothing to over analyze, just a deftly played card. The monastery would always be there to answer for later, but Alec was tonight, right now. Magnus followed him, soaking in the sight of him from behind, and repeated that mantra. Tonight, right now. It didn’t have to hurt, not unless Magnus let it.

Alec examined the two hot cocoas, slipping on sleeves before gifting Magnus with his.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were together.” Bewildered they looked at the vacant coffee machines, and the cashier popped out from nowhere. She grinned wide. Sharking about for tips, Magnus thought cynically, because he so would. “Happy holidays! It’s so cold out. Brr!”

“We’re not together,” said Alec, quickly.

“Oh! Well, my _not_ mistake then.”

Magnus had to abort or else she was going to nix any chance of a together with Alec. “Thank you,” he said, perhaps a bit cheekily, and stepped away.

But the magic had been broken regardless. They wound their way through the coffee shop. Without being able to find a natural way to stop it, they exited the shop at the chime of a bell, the unforgiving bite of New York in wintertime nipping at them. Alec shivered a full body shudder. Magnus chanced burning his tongue with a sip of hot cocoa to hide how much he enjoyed the sight of him.

Alec toasted his cup to him. “Well, it was nice meaning you, Magnus. I hope you get your real pine tree.”

But he stepped away—an unspoken message.

Just as well. Tonight, right now had a certain finality to its existence, by design.

Magnus toasted him. “Happy holidays.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs, in order of appearance:  
> [Underneath the Tree - Kelly Clarkson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfF10ow4YEo)  
> [God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZlsJD8RlhbI)  
> [Gloria In Excelsis Deo (Angels We Have Heard On High)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RJA8Q8it5s)  
> [Little Drummer Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DT1fA59oH7Q)  
> ♥


	2. Chapter 2

“Someone’s in a good mood,” said Isabelle.

Alec strode past her to glower at the various screens in the heart of the ops center. “Did you secure a warlock yet?”

She never looked up from her tablet, flicking her stylus across the screen. “After Valentine, no one wants to bother.”

Frowning, he analyzed the alerts of field agents battling demons in Staten Island to distract himself from the disappointment.

Today Alec finished confirming the reports from a preliminary inspection of the Institute conducted earlier that week. It failed to soothe his concerns. A conference room that supposedly passed with flying colors had cracks in the wall. Potholes in a far corner of the cloister were never logged, hidden beneath boxes of sealed plastic Christmas trees, an excuse that Alec had not cared for. Potholes, demons. No living nor synthetic pine needle could be left unturned. The ops center did not require any repairs, as its high priority in keeping the Institute functional and running meant swift, early action. The weapons area remained in a dubious state of affairs, void of nefarious entities yet forever suspect given Hodge’s constant exposure to it. Alec traced a stele over every inch of the room, noting weak spots. He similarly scrutinized the Institute for the past few weeks to ensure a comprehensive list of repairs on the warlock’s duty roster, if the Institute ever managed to hire one. Every minute that passed without a warlock made Alec want to grab his bow and shoot arrows until his fingers numbed.

“I better continue confirming the inspections,” he said, miserable but resigned at the thought of running his stele over every nook and cranny of the Institute. “Let me know as soon as anyone responds to the offer.”

He swept past a desk with accountants gathered around a palm sized stuffed snowman. They pinched its arm and cycled it through Frosty the Snowman and deep belly chortling of “Ho, ho, ho!” He skipped up the stairs two steps at a time, in a hurry to fetch the clipboard from his office to continue logging the repairs. With a razor sharp fixation on ameliorating his performance, he was oblivious to the man turning a corner down onto the stairs—but then the man flew back and crashed into a wall. Startled, Alec leapt to help him back onto his feet, only the Shadowhunter thrust out a palm, shouting, “No!”

The accountants quieted, though the snowman still thumped and sang.

“Do you need a medic?”

“Don’t—” he whispered. “Please, sir. Don’t make me.”

Alec crouched to meet his eye, confused. “I don’t understand.”

The man looked up urgently.

Over their heads in the space that separated them, a sprig of mistletoe hung from a bow of scarlet ribbon. In a thrilling conspiratorial gossip, word had travelled after the first reported sightings of a benign, mysterious foliage at various parts of the Institute, the location of which changed nightly at the whim of whoever mustered the enthusiasm to move them. The two lucky souls that found their way under the same mistletoe had to kiss, and though most reacted by awkward chuckles or a kiss on the cheek, it seemed this Shadowhunter thought differently. Alec shot up, despite the quick churns in his gut.

He stared down at the man, dumbstruck about how to proceed, and dimly it occurred to him that lingering raised potential to exacerbate affairs. He bade to leave—only to be stopped by another.

“Alec!”

A plume of red hair perfumed with persimmon and lavender whisked before him. Then Clary was kissing him on either cheek, twice. She squeezed his shoulders and smiled. “Merry Christmas, my future parabatai-in-law.”

Her vivid green eyes, flush with sympathy and compassion, would have pacified someone better than Alec, someone who did not look at Clary and feel only contempt. Envy for the life he could never have. Irritation at her insolence to follow the rules or avoid blatant indiscretions. The hurt and bitterness fermented with the nausea in his belly. He understood his emotions to be not simply displaced but wholly irrational. Yet he hated Clary. He hated the Clave. The Shadowhunter who grew so horrified of being under a mistletoe with him that he would rather risk injury than laugh it off. Alec slipped out from Clary’s hold without acknowledging her.

* * *

With his trusty old frog and a bottle of aged zinfandel wine in hand, Magnus stepped through the portal and strolled into Dot’s apartment. His shined leather boots had yet to step fully into her tiny living room before his graceful waltz lurched to a halt, blinded by the startling light pouring from the opened curtains and hundreds of twinkling LED bulbs on the Christmas tree. Blinded, he pressed the wine bottle over his forehead, and the frog croaked in protest.

“Magnus! That you?” cried Dot. She poked her head around the entrance to the kitchen, hair in a loose French braid and sporting a baggy Penn State hoodie. She had not studied there, merely a relentless follower of college football. She waved a yellow-gloved hand. “I’m finishing up some dishes.”

Magnus set the carrier with the frog down on a table before following her. In three paces, he all but entered the kitchen. Dot elected to live amongst mundanes in an old, cramped apartment building in Brooklyn, a few spells to ward off the truly horrific number of people who wanted her dead. The thought of gently raising the issue was always on his mind. A soup simmered on the stove, the chopped off ends of root vegetables and onion skins discarded on the counter. Elbow deep in soap suds, Dot washed up cast iron cauldrons, hand carved wooden spoons, and miniature metal bowls that all should have been melted from the junk warlocks tossed in them had they not been smithed and whittled with magic. Curious, Magnus tipped the neck of the wine at her in askance.

She smiled. “Clary’s been getting headaches from the lost memories.”

“That’s a shame,” he said.

“That’s life, I guess.”

One Magnus helped to create, at good price, but Dot bit her tongue.

“You brought wine?”

Magnus leaned against the doorframe. “And the frog we talked about.”

“Great.”

The soap bottle burbled as she squirted a dollop onto the sponge, and she scrubbed that cauldron with gusto, as if washing dishes were the most invigorating activity in the world. As if she could not just magic away the grime.

Talking to Dot had not always been this hard, not until she endangered herself time and time again by meddling into Shadowhunter affairs. He felt for Clary Fairchild, sympathy and tremendous guilt over her lost memories, but it was foolishness on Dot’s part for her of all people to continue associating with Shadowhunters. He seldom voiced this concern, as they had not remained good friends over the years by blurting out every thought that bounced around in their heads, but eventually it grew too hard not to notice the elephant in the room, especially in light of the events occurring in the past year. With the cauldrons a stark reminder of the heated opinions on the forefront of both their minds, they steeped into an amicable, though tight, silence. When Magnus began to itch with pent up nerves, he snapped his fingers to fashion two glasses of zinfandel and conjured Dot’s glass just beside the sink. Taking a liberal sip, he crossed the kitchen with a singular step to admire the soup.

“You’re cooking?” he asked.

“What?” Dot lowered the water pressure. “Oh, the soup. Yes. A sort of ‘whatever needed to get tossed in ASAP… or else’ minestrone.”

And so the day went.

Magnus tended the soup as Dot finished minute chores, and then they retired to the dinette—truly, a little corner in the living room carved out with ornate folding screens and an assortment of artificial and living indoor plants. They settled catty corner with ceramic bowls of hearty soup and the wine. Their conversations skirted the tenuous ice sheet of politeness, the frigid underbelly of everything best left unsaid not worth ruining the last moments they would spend for a grand many years. They had not always been so frigid, not until Dot refused to hide away in Magnus’s lair and kept being kidnapped after involving herself endlessly in Shadowhunter affairs. As it always went these days, the cool pleasantries inevitably melted as it grew impossible for Magnus to not raise the issue. Her nerve hit, Dot would spit back that at least she had not hidden behind extravagance and still opened herself up to love. After Ragnor’s death, the arguments arose in bleak frequency and incensed them to such vociferous passion until both Dot and Magnus forgot to whom they spoke. But they always remembered in the end, when the words had cut too deep. They were the oldest friends either had, and they were both destined to live an ancient existence. He kept quiet about his disapproval as if she were a sister he did not want to lose.

With his leave for the monastery fast approaching, they had arrived at a solemn truce. Keeping the peace this afternoon came with ease on account of Dot offering to look after Magnus’s frog. Whenever they risked pitching themselves into the abyss of cyclical arguments, they remembered the frog.

Dabbing bread on the broth pooled at the bottom of his bowl, Magnus said, “She’s spayed, but hormonal secretions still affect the toxins she produces.”

Dot hummed. “You never win.”

“She likes folk music—”

A motorcycle’s engine rumbled, the kind that roared because well-greased elbows dug into the engine and made it loud, and conversation halted as they waited for the racket to abate. Five seconds passed, then ten. Fifteen.

Magnus could not restrain himself any longer. “Honestly, Dot. Stay at the lair. You won’t even have a roommate.”

“I can’t,” she said slowly. “This is Clary’s second home. It’s close to her neighborhood, old high school—”

“—putting a target on your back for Valentine to find you—”

“—have wards, and the Institute is—”

Magnus tossed down his spoon, the sharp _clank_ startling them both into silence. He took a breath and replied, calmly, “You’re a fool to trust those Shadowhunters and you know it.”

“Magnus, you’re mistaken about them,” said Dot, reaching across the table to take his hand. “It’s different. Clary helped change them. Not just with defeating Valentine, but she’s helping change their views and reform—”

“I wish you’d let me borrow the little Fox Mulder in your heart.” He winked. “I want to believe, too.”

“You’re so… you’re so _angry_. Do you think running off to Spain is going to solve all your troubles? You’re just treating the symptoms, Magnus. You’ve been a mess for over a century after Camille—”

“Don’t—”

“Do you think that this is what Ragnor would have wanted? For you to just shut people out? You’re shutting _me_ out, for God’s sake! You’re never going to be happy if you don’t open yourself up to—”

“Spoken from someone who keeps walking straight into the wolf’s den expecting a different outcome every time.” But his heart pounded at her words, fast and hard, yearning. He remembered the courage of love. “Forgive me if I don’t buy your authority on claiming _Shadowhunters_ lead only to hap—”

He was interrupted not by Dot but the telephone blaring. Dot tossed down her napkin and shot over to the coffee table where her phone laid ringing and vibrating. She took one look at the caller ID and glanced at Magnus briefly. “I better take this.”

Magnus shrugged. “Don’t mind me.”

Dot disappeared in the hallway. “Isabelle? Hey, what’s up?”

It took a few seconds for the adrenaline to wear off, and soon Magnus fell back into his chair, grimacing and rubbing a hand over his face. He looked over at the frog, sleeping in its crate and breathing so deeply that it bounced in place.

Perhaps Dot had a point. But he preferred his.

He had not been the one to find Dot brainwashed and tortured at the hands of Valentine, but after the Clave released her from their investigations and Clary smuggled her to his loft, he had been the one to pick up the pieces and stitch her back together. He had done it the first time after she escaped Valentine’s boat. And the many times after that when the Institute came begging for a warlock’s help.

“...hold on. I might be able to get someone for you.”

Dot returned, sans phone, and perched herself at the edge of the table beside Magnus. He met her eye, and looking at her now that the high of his emotions had died down made him feel ashamed of his bitter words. But he could not leave for Galicia with water under the bridge. He needed to know they still had each other. He stood to face her properly.

“Dorothea, I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know.” Dot smiled, and he grew cautious of her cunning look. “And I know how you can make it up to me. That was Isabelle Lightwood from the Institute on the phone. They’ve got a little situation over there. They need a warlock and can’t hire me.”

Magnus shook his head, laughing and stepping away. “Oh, no.”

Dot smiled wider. “Come on, Magnus. You were just apologizing.”

“That was before I knew you had plans.”

“Plans schmans. Come on, they just need a measly little warlock to fix up some repairs before the Clave comes to inspect the place and no warlock’s taken them up on the offer. Apparently Alec Lightwood is getting to be a little _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_.”

Magnus paused at the name Alec, but scolded himself. There were many people in New York named Alec. Odds of this man bearing any resemblance to his Alec from the coffee shop last night was nonsensical. “I’m guessing your ears must still be ringing from that motorcycle, but I said, and I quote, ‘No.’”

“Please? It’d mean a lot to me. If you do, I promise…” She at least had the decency to feign contemplation. “I won’t, and I promise this, involve myself in any Shadowhunter business.”

“Really?”

“No.”

They laughed.

“Clary’s getting married in eleven days!”

Magnus quieted. “It’s just repairs?”

“Yes, and Alec’s very thorough. He created a meticulous list. I doubt you’ll even have to talk to anyone.”

“Well, fine. I’ll check it out.”

* * *

Holes in walls. Lingering demonic energy. Glitter and tinsel on weapons.

Alec wanted to sack himself to save Idris the hassle.

Once he scrounged up the energy to finish inspections, he returned to his office with the intent to stretch out his legs, read the news, eat lunch, rejuvenate his mind with a pointless endeavor. Anything. Instead, he situated himself at his desk and rifled through drawers to fetch the stack of reports he had been hacking away at before yesterday’s wedding rehearsal. He snatched a black ballpoint with an ergonomic pencil grip and got to work.

He signed off a half dozen reports until memories of the mistletoe incident intruded.

Whenever he felt at ease, something always found its way to remind him of his status as a malevolent anomaly to the Clave. _Alec, are you insane?_ his mother had hissed in his ear, trailing after him on the aisle as he left Lydia. Shocked and flighty, Alec had not thought. He spun around and declared with authority, _No, I’m gay._ Navigating the waters that now gulfed him from his parents mattered very little to him. He had always been a disappointment, if not as a man, then a professional. Too few promotions, even when he dozed off at his desk during the late hours of night on enough occasions to be statistically significant. Unmarried and no grandchildren changed the flavor of their disapproval; his parents merely needed to grieve the life that they had planned and hoped for him. But the Clave proved different. It held the reins to that future, and since the wedding, Alec was choking on the bit.

He could not help but think back to last night. To Magnus the mundane with smoky eyes. His smile. Those silver earrings must have been freezing with all that snow, but Magnus made it seem so warm, inviting. No one at the Institute knew about Rudolph’s Café, and especially not Alec’s curious appreciation for mundane religion. But then he found Magnus, who spoke with confidence but no arrogance, instead kindness and humility. Alec spent the whole time primed to bolt at the first opportunity, certain his acquaintanceship exposed a transparency he would sooner regret. But, though wistful longing might it be, he could have sworn Magnus had not wanted to part ways.

A pulsating sting ached in his jaw. Alec had not realized that his jaw had been clenched until then. He set down the pen and threw his head into his hands.

He wished it wasn’t so hard.

He wished he knew what to do.

 _Joseph didn’t have to trust Mary._ The words had stuck with Alec, partly because he doubted trust was attainable for him anymore. He only held his position at the Institute because the Clave could not find a suitable replacement. He refused to vent his frustrations, not even to Isabelle, and were he to subject himself to a diary, the potential for his humiliation to be leaked had squashed that prospect.

“I wish Magnus were here,” he told the empty office.

His phoned buzzed with an incoming message. Begrudgingly, he allowed himself a break to check it and rid his head of these useless thoughts.

 _Guess who just found you a_ warlock, Isabelle texted him. _Hold your applause. I already know I’m amazing._

* * *

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, had been hired to repair the Institute, and a High Warlock had to look the part. Upon leaving Dot’s cramped apartment, he portaled home to quickly change into a new wardrobe and touch up his makeup, contemplating jewelry for long enough to skirt at the edge of fashionably late. Nevertheless, Shadowhunters were such punctual people, and he would not put it past them to pinch pennies for his hourly wages if he arrived even a second after schedule.

As glamorous as he could muster under short notice, Magnus conjured a portal for the Institute and reminded himself that he did this for Dot.

At the entrance to the Institute, a brown-eyed Shadowhunter waited for him, his blank stare darkening the instant he laid eyes on Magnus. Magnus strolled into the lobby, beaming at him, then eased to a stop in awe as he witnessed at the Christmas spirit overflowing in the ordinarily stern, professional organization. Small, fluffy trees stuffed with tinsel, ornaments, lights, and stars sat between the elevators, paper snowflakes twirling from the ceiling on invisible thread. Ornaments hung from garland that scalloped the stone friezes. Across the various computers, desks, stressed out Shadowhunters, and glorified cubicles, there stood a majestic Douglass fir with the ordinary decorations and white lines of popcorn twirling up and up until it lead to what Magnus believed was a Santa Claus sock puppet where an angel ought to rest.

“ _Thumpety, thump, thump. Thumpety, thump, thump. Look at Frosty go!_ ”

With an ever-rising eyebrow, Magnus observed as a crowd of Shadowhunters gathered around an electronic Frosty plush toy.

“ _Thumpety, thump, thump. Thumpety, thump, thump. Over the hills and snow!_ ”

Perhaps Dot had been right to needle him on allowing more Shadowhunters into his life. Clearly, they were changing with the times.

“Warlock,” commanded the Shadowhunter before him.

Or not.

Magnus’s gaze lingered on the cheery Shadowhunters before he regarded the individual crowing at him, and he happened to discover a mistletoe close by. He pointed at it. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d prefer you brushed your teeth first.”

The Shadowhunter glowered. “Come on.”

As they swept through the Institute, Magnus felt severely underdressed. His wore an ostentatious amount of black, a vest with sheen violet trimmings, and a deep burgundy scarf tied like an ascot, but had he known about the Christmas fanfare and gleeful enthusiasm for all commercial aspects of the holiday season, he would have certainly worn more red and green. Perhaps a fashionably ugly sweater and that candy cane scarf he had bought on a whim and never used. His guide strode at an obscenely fast pace, the distance between them exaggerated by Magnus’s gawking, although admittedly he made no attempt to hasten. His stomach pinched deliriously whenever the Shadowhunter had to stop and wait. The corridors, though silent, did not lack for ornamentation and light music, but Magnus missed the joviality of the ops center.

The Shadowhunter paused without warning at a door and knocked. Though no one answered, he entered regardless.

“Raj?” said a familiar voice—a pleasantly familiar voice, Magnus realized. He placed it in a manner of seconds.

“Magnus Bane has arrived, sir.”

Magnus swept into the office and, gob smacked, witnessed a tall man with broad shoulders and a tapering waist stand before a grand desk with his back to them—but he recognized those shoulders, having admired them with such a keen eye.

Alec. His Alec from the coffee shop.

Alec shuffled a stack of papers, settling them in a clean, even pile, and a thousand thoughts started battering away at Magnus. That poor, charming man who didn’t run away after Magnus attempted to pick him up with Jesus was the Head of the Institute that lead Dot countless times into lethal danger. Was the Head of the New York Institute not the same man who should have been married if he had not played runaway bride, shouted at the entire Clave about declarations of homosexuality, and proceeded to go on a harebrained mission that led to Clary finding The Book of the White? Magnus flattened a hand over his vest to iron out lingering wrinkles, undecided on whether to portal home without a farewell or take Alec to town for more hot cocoa. Perhaps the latter, except for spiked eggnog instead.

Alec, satisfied with the orderliness of his desk, turned to greet them. Breath caught as the tension coiled in him, Magnus watched carefully for the slightest reaction. Stony hazel eyes met his, void of the warmth and innocence that Magnus had admired so much last night. Impressive, professional, all he needed was a crisp tie suffocating him as Magnus anticipated the Clave had done ever since he had first grown comfortable in his own skin. The secondhand on the office’s grand clock ticked away, and not once did Alec soften.

“Mr. Bane?” said Alec, finally.  

Magnus followed his lead. “Mr. Lightwood.”

Alec took a slip of paper and extended a hand to shake. Magnus glanced down, and then reached out. They shook once, firm, businesslike—yet a fission still shot through him, and he kept a hold on Alec for perhaps a second too long.

Alec dropped him and presented the paper. “Thank you for coming. We have a tight deadline and need all the help we can get. Here’s a comprehensive list of repairs. We’re offering to pay an hourly wage of...”

Magnus had not intended for his attention to wane, but he could not help but notice the lack of life in Alec’s office. Not a single Christmas decoration. No music, not even a hint of the carols in the hallway. Just the tick of a clock. Their weights creaking the floorboards. Winds from the slight snowstorm whirling outside. He tried to reconcile this plain office with the endearing man from the coffee shop.

“Mr. Bane?” prompted Alec.

Magnus took the sheet of instructions and smiled. “Magnus would suffice, my dear, as would this list and the payment offered.”

Raj scoffed, and Magnus stopped himself from groaning, having completely forgotten his existence.

“That’ll be all, Raj,” said Alec. “Thank you.”

Dismissed, Raj left. At the snap of the closed door, a flicker in Alec’s eyes broke that stoic, cool edge. The room felt much smaller with just the two of them. He remembered the warmth of Alec’s hand and the fun of tugging at the threads of his reserved nature to tease out those rare smiles. He thought of Dot and Clary, and he began to understand. Magnus twirled a silver ring to lend himself a slight distraction, but broke it as soon as it felt right regardless. “You do remember me, don’t you?” asked Magnus.

“We met last night,” said Alec.

 _That isn’t exactly what I meant_ , Magnus wanted to reply, but instead whisked up the sheet listing out various locations in the Institute and the issues to resolve. “I better get a head start. Don’t want to take all day.”

Alec nodded. “Let me know if there are any problems. My number is listed on the paper.”

He stepped back to his desk, ending the discussion just as he had last night. But it felt different now. Magnus examined the office one final time, taking in the aged leather chairs, fine old portraits with elegant grassy knolls and swooping valleys, lamps with bright golden light, true living plants freshening the air. Yet, somehow, it did not fit Alec, or at least not Magnus’s impression of him. He had not anticipated tinsel and music, nor a grand Christmas tree and furniture rearranged in cramped corners to accommodate it, but the office lacked vitality. Exuberance. A passion for life. In the shy, humble man he had made acquaintance last night, he had anticipated a little something more—emphasis on the little, but not without soul. Alec sat at the desk, unaware of his staring, and Magnus no longer saw their parting as a finality—but a challenge.

* * *

“ _Deck the halls with boughs of holly!_ _Fa la la la la, la la la la!_ ”

A moist, stagnant breath of air drifted through an abandoned corridor, though it had not always been so forgotten. Garland, holly, tinsel, and ornaments choked the orderliness out of the dark hall, illuminated only by the blinking red and green fairy lights stabbed into the walls with nails and hooked over portraits. Joy, the newest recruit from the Clave, had hooked candy canes herself over doorknobs. The ephemeral aroma of cinnamon had been there since that morning, when the lights were switched off to bring attention to the fairy lights.

But now candy canes melted into puddles on the floor, the heat of cinnamon chilled with an oncoming dread. A creature slithered along the hardwood floor, coiling and winding and hissing out its forked tongue.

“ _’Tis the season to be jolly!_ _Fa la la la la, la la la la!”_

It turned a corner, tail curling along the wall and burning tarry black lines into the wainscoting. In its wake, chucked against the wall and pale as death, laid Joy the Shadowhunter, jaw broken and hanging loose, blood both fresh crimson and flaky burgundy chalk staining the pale skin of her chin. The creature, stomach full and satisfied from Joy, followed the sound of the carols, hungry and searching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs:  
> [Frosty the Snowman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jIyVB1b2aBs)  
> [Deck the Halls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgEVI8DEkF8&frags=pl%2Cwn)


End file.
